


A Sequel Of Sorts

by roonerspism



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roonerspism/pseuds/roonerspism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years ago, Roger told you his story. His story had an end. But life has a funny way of continuing on past the points that we percieve to be the ends of things. So this is a sequel, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sequel Of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my dear friend, LJ's unbridled_dream. It is a direct follow-on piece from her delicious, wondrous fic, "When You See Me", which can be found [HERE](http://unbridled-dream.livejournal.com/6102.html), and is 11,878 brilliant words long. It is not absolutely necessary that you read her fic first, but I believe you will have a greater understanding of mine if you do.  
> This story revolves around the encounters between Roger and Rafael, and their relationship, from 2007 to 2011.  
> I have tried to keep the bigger details as true to life as possible. Some of the smaller details are factually accurate, some are less so. Everything was specifically chosen for the sake of the story.  
> I have also chosen to tell this tale in first person, in keeping with unbridled_dream's original piece, and like hers it's written from Roger's point of view.  
> Direct quotes are in italics.  
> And I think that's all you need to know.

You will know my name. It's not something I flaunt, but I won't say I'm not proud. Maybe you knew me back then, maybe not. Today it is inevitable. It isn't arrogance that prompts me to say so, rather the knowledge that today I truly am a household name. Roger Federer. Say it. Know it. Rolls off the tongue, too easy. Perhaps you do think it's arrogant. People have always thought that about me. Never praising an opponent enough, never short of excuses when I lose. Is that arrogance?

 

 _I am very down to earth and not going to say I am the greatest. It definitely feels great being part of such an elite group._

 

You can believe what you want about me. I'm not a one to stand in the way of opinion. I know people get tired of hearing my name. The press, the other players. Journalists have long enjoyed taking stabs at me. Sometimes it hits home. I wonder how Mirka deals with me. Then I remember, I do what I do for one person, and one person only. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.

That's one of the reasons I'm sharing with you here. You know me, or at least you may think you do. But you don't know what the press don't tell you. And I don't tell the press anything much, these days. So I will tell you something closer to my heart. I won't tell you how to react, when to smile, when to cry. Whether or not to believe me, even. All I will tell you is the truth. Like I did last time. Take from it what you will.

 

~

 

I first met Rafael in 2004. To begin with I had thought he was just another talented youngster, just another man to beat. Not even a man, really, but a boy. That's all he was back then. Just a boy.

The first time we played, Miami. He beat me, and although I didn't allow myself to think it, I knew something was coming. Like a storm in a teacup, Rafael was the rumble of thunder in too small a space. If you had asked me, like so many did, I wouldn't have dared place a prediction on his rise through the rankings. But somehow, I knew.

He was number two in the world within five months of the next year. But you know this. This I have said already.

What you need to know, what I have told you, and will tell you again, is this: From rocky beginnings, things tumbled head over heel, limb over limb, and we came together, somehow, met each other halfway, and loved each other.

It wasn't something I could comprehend at the time. I didn't even try. It just was. We just were. Rafael and me. The romance behind the rivalry. Our secret.

Of course Mirka knew, or at least suspected, eventually. And we drifted apart, just enough. She wouldn't hold my hand. I didn't offer it. But we stayed together, just enough. I've always needed her, like air, it's inexplicable but necessary that she be with me. I know deep down that I am the same for her. So we stayed. Standing either side of the pond, still in sight but too far apart to touch.

 

~

 

For all that it was, it was beautiful. I had tennis, I had dominance, and I had Rafael. When we made love he would mumble my name, dripping in his Spanish accent, sounding so reverent. When everyone else tired of my name, he made it sound like a prayer.

 

~

 

But. While we loved, we fought. On court, of course, never off. Over time, each of us was forced to fight harder and harder. He had me on clay. He was my man on grass. And even though he had the advantage in our head-to-head, it was me who broke him, not the other way around.

Well, no, I suppose he broke me too.

Wimbledon, 2007. I pushed him to the limit. Afterwards, I knew I had lost him. It was something I never saw coming.

Did I hurt you?

Yes, Rafa. You did.

 

~

 

Three years ago, I told you a story. That story. I expected nothing from you, then. Maybe it affected the way you see me, the way you react when you hear my name. At the very least, that.

At the time, I thought I had told you everything. I thought the story had reached an end. Funny how things work out. Like so many blockbuster movies, my story has a sequel. So now, if you'll indulge me once more, I will tell you what happened after that Wimbledon final. The one where it was one loss too many, for him. The one where my perfect world fell to ruin. The one that was, for all intents and purposes, the end.

If you will listen, I will tell you everything.

 

~

 

 **New York, August/September 2007.**

Arthur Ashe Kid's Day. That was our first meeting in America. It felt odd not greeting Rafael at his hotel room, like we would've done only months ago. There would have been kisses, chaste and excited, hands all over, fingers and eyes roaming each other's bodies. Instead, out on the courts, I avoided eye contact and said the obligatory hellos. We shook hands, and his warm palm was ice cold to me.

All day I felt him, felt his eyes on me, as if searching for some unreachable truth. I gave him nothing. I wasn't stand-offish at all, just blank, unreadable.

I smiled despite myself when he ran towards, and tripped over the net, somersaulting on the other side of the court. He clambered to his feet and instantly looked my way. He was doing it for me, I knew, though I couldn't tell why. I wiped the smile from my face. His face, in turn, fell. He turned away, to Serena, who was laughing at his antics. And he joined in the laughter, pretending it was all for fun. For everyone.

 

~

 

He lost to David Ferrer in the fourth round. I watched from the sterile comfort of my overly large, overly clean hotel room. Mirka sat with me, on the opposite end of the sofa, glancing at me after every missed point, gauging my reaction. I kept my eyes trained on the television, but the white knuckles of my tightly clenched fists probably gave me away. I don't know what I expected to feel at the end of the match, but it certainly wasn't gutted.

For a while after the match, both of us sat in silence. Mirka stared at me and I slowly relinquished my hold on the couch cushions. My knuckles spotted pink as colour seeped back into my skin.

"You miss him." Mirka. Stoic and straight to the point.

I was quick to defend myself. "I'm just sorry he lost. I know how it feels."

"Nobody would believe that, coming from you," she retorted, quick, sarcastic. I didn't have anything in me for a response.

 

~

 

Rafael used to stay in America, if he lost, stay and watch my matches. Watch me hold the trophy in the end. And then, when all the commitments were over, we'd go back to his hotel room and melt into each other. Become one another. Make love until the sunrise tore us apart.

This time, I knew, if I won I'd be doing it alone.

 

~

 

 _It's great, being there till the end, seeing an empty locker room and a full stadium._

 

At the week's end, I had that trophy in my eager hands. Winning never gets any less exciting. You may think me greedy, or again, arrogant, but I truly believe I deserve each and every victory. So I stood there, clutching the cup, smiling for the cameras, for the crowd. For Rafa, because I hoped he could see me, see how well I could do without him.

Novak looked tired and deflated by my side, but he put on a happy face, always the joker, always. He is a far better loser than me.

 

~

 

 **Shanghai, November 2007.**

It was November before I saw Rafael again.

I came to Shanghai with a point to prove, having lost to David Nalbandian in Paris only weeks before. I was defending champion of the Tennis Master Cup, and everything in me ached for another win, another way to prove myself.

Of course, I lost my first match to Gonzalez. Undeterred, I went on to claim two victories, over Davydenko and Roddick. Andy is used to my beating him by now, but I know he is sick of my victor's smile. We are friends, yes. But part of him detests me, and I can't really blame him.

Rafael lost too, to Ferrer, but like me, won twice in the round robin stages. Which set up our first on court meeting since Wimbledon.

I avoided him on the practice courts. Or maybe he avoided me. At any rate, we saw very little of one another throughout the tournament. When it came time for our match, I didn't think I was ready to face him.

We exchanged pleasantries in the locker rooms, before prying eyes. I was glad for the company of Mirka, despite her nervous buzzing, and all the pained looks in Rafael's direction. I sat on a plastic chair and gripped the edges of the seat so hard my knuckles again went pale. From there I could see Rafael flitting about, taping his fingers, looking like a warrior readying himself for battle. I suppose in a way, he was.

I felt his gaze come to an unsettled rest on my figure, bent double and wound too tightly on the chair. He studied me with unfamiliar, dark eyes. I felt my grip tighten on the seat. A searing pain shot through my hands, warning of cramps. Mirka, standing beside me, placed her small hand on mine, and I let my fingers loosen their hold just a fraction.

When she left me, I stood, feeling aimless, though I well knew my aim. He stood opposite me, the man I had to beat. And I was going to beat him.

On court, the scores said all that needed to be said. At the net, we touched, just barely. I felt my eyes burn with tears for the victory I knew I had earned, and smiled at Rafael, no warmth at all. He just looked back at me with those same strange, darkened eyes. I hope my smile looked smug.

 

~

 

I ended the year ranked number one in the world, for the fourth time in succession. I shared a bottle of wine with Mirka, but could only manage one glass.

 

 _One thing is for sure: he's the best player of his time and one of the most admirable champions on the planet. That's certainly something worth crowing over. The beauty is, Roger Federer won't._

 

~

 

 **Melbourne, January 2008.**

I arrived in Australia the same day as Rafael. I know this because his arrival caused a stir something akin to mine. Mirka and I waded through the airport arrivals, me signing an autograph here and there, careful to be everything I am expected to be in public.

Then, from another arrival gate, I saw him. Toni Nadal came first, flanked by several of Rafael's team members, shooing people away in his regular style. Then came Rafael, shrouded in a protective cloud of Spaniards; trainers and supporters, and Her. She had little made her presence known in the past, never turning up to watch Rafael's matches, never on his arm. She was a seldom mentioned shield from public scrutiny. Now she was here.

Rafael caught my eye as he plodded through the masses that gathered to catch a glimpse of him. His gaze was coal-black, and he looked to be at some degree of unrest. Dark circles clung under his eyes. And then as quickly as he caught me, he let me go. I was left with the ghost of those dark eyes, captured in my conscious mind.

 

~

 

In the player's lounge I spoke with Andy. Every day, or close enough. He teased me, like he always does, and I bounced back with mocking of my own. I like our friendship. It has long been part of my life, and it is stable. Stability is something I've been lacking lately.

The day before the first round came quicker than I had hoped. Once again, I was in the player's lounge with Andy.

I knew Rafael had entered the room before I saw him. A hush fell, like everyone in the area had had their breath taken, all their words stolen from within them. It was a power I knew only a few to possess. One of them, and I know you will roll your eyes (Andy certainly would), is me. Another, if not the only other, is Rafael.

He held all in the room, for a brief moment, like a King holding court, before people slowly turned away from him, back to their conversations. Andy was saying something to me, and my eyes were on him, but my attentions were elsewhere. I could _feel_ Rafael bristling on my skin. He felt bitter, like coffee beans. And those dark eyes, I knew without seeing, were trained on me. As if daring me to look. In that moment, I didn't dare.

 

~

 

We both made the semi-finals.

I watched his match from the locker rooms, whilst preparing for my own. The explosive force of Jo-Wilfred Tsonga almost matched that of Rafael himself. Yet somehow, it was more. Before me, before Australia, Rafael came undone. 6-2, 6-3, 6-2. I could see the tears in Rafael's eyes, and part of me burned in agony. Another, shallower part, let me smile and burn, and burn out of a callous sense of victory. To his credit, he didn't let a single tear fall.

 

~

 

So I lost, to Novak; the wiry Serb had me in straight sets. He seemed to come from somewhere that was nowhere, blasting through to the semis and taking me down in style. I was gracious in defeat, though inside I seethed. Someone was going to take my crown.

At least it wouldn't be Rafael.

 

~

 

 **Monte Carlo, April 2008.**

Revenge and rapture were on my mind.

I reached Monte Carlo with one goal, and one goal only. I attacked the competition like I never had before. Mirka watched me with fire in her eyes, burning for me like always as I worked my way through the draw. And then, suddenly, I was in the final.

Looking back at me across the court was Rafael.

I won’t say it was an easy loss to take. Really, they never are. But as I approached the net, approached _him_ for the first time in almost three months, I felt something in me stir. Rafael met my gaze as we walked to each other, and there it was. Almost imperceptible, but just enough for me to notice. The vaguest hint of a smile on his face. The cold darkness of defeat had left him. And as he reached out to touch me, to shake my hand in commiseration, I saw his eyes soften like butter in the sun.

 

~

 

 **Hamburg, May 2008**

Arriving at any tournament as the defending champion adds a certain level of unnecessary pressure.

We prepared, Mirka and I, fiercely. After my loss in Monte Carlo, nothing seemed so important as victory in Hamburg. I trained under her watch until my legs ached, night fall the only thing calling me away from the practice courts day after day. Each evening I would return to the hotel, to Mirka, and let her hold me, just hold me until I fell asleep.

Once the tournament was officially underway, I let myself relax, just enough. It never helps performance to play tight, wound up, stressed. Under pressure.

All those torturous hours spent practicing in the lead up to day one paid off, too. They saw me sweep through round after round, battle after battle, until at last, I was so close I could smell it; the smell of sweat and metal. The trophy. Victory.

Of course, I should be meeting Rafael in the final.

So soon after our previous meeting, and something in me wavered when I saw him walk on court. A yearning, almost, in the pit of my stomach. Bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, he saw me staring, and our gazes locked for a brief moment. Then, something surprising. A smile, not out of duty, not for the cameras, but for me. It was small, and fleeting, but the smothered warmth now, at last, reached his eyes. I nodded curtly, keeping my composure, although my stomach fluttered gently. Out of nervousness or something else, I couldn’t tell.

The match, when it comes down to it, wasn’t a great one. Nobody will remember Hamburg 2008. Nobody except me, and Mirka. And Rafael, I expect.

I met him at the net, like always, a whispered congratulation on the tip of my tongue. But he beat me to it, reaching out to me, not simply shaking my hand but pulling me into half a hug.

“You play well, Roger. I like to congratulate you.”

When I opened my mouth to respond, no words formed. He patted my stomach, and the fluttering from before the match returned with a vengeance. Hardly daring to look at his face, I forced myself to turn my head just slightly, to catch his eye once more. The sunshine that greeted me was astounding.

Warmth poured from every inch of him. His eyes, his smile, his touch. Because that smile was back, that sincere, boyish smile. And he was touching me, still.

All I could focus on was that outpouring of warmth. His touch, like new. One hand against my stomach, the other on my back, burning a connecting line through my very core.

Suddenly, losing my title didn’t matter at all.

 

~

 

 **Paris, May/June 2008.**

The clay courts of Paris. Rafael’s home, or close enough to it. In tennis terms, at least. He belonged here like he belonged in the Majorcan sea. Me, I have always been a great clay court player. Again I might sound arrogant, but I speak the truth. Rafael though, is somehow more. He _owns_ the clay.

I knew this was going to be yet another harsh test. Getting to the final was not the issue. Winning it was.

On the day of the final, in the locker room with Mirka, I paced like a restless child. I could see Rafael and his team fussing about in the edge of my vision. This did little to calm my nerves. Mirka watched me stalk up and down for a time, before stilling me with a single touch. Her hand on my arm was cool and comforting. I glanced at her, and saw something hidden in her gaze, something like wanting.

“Roger,” she said. I studied her face as she thoughtfully formed her next words. It seemed what she had originally set out to say was pushed aside, and in the end she simply told me, “Good luck.”

After that, she leaned in and kissed me, for the first time in months. And then she was gone. Everyone was gone, but Rafael and me.

I sat, shirt in my lap, and watched him as he set about in his preparations for the match, completely neglecting my own. Something in me ached, somewhere non-specific. It was like an all over sickness.

Rafael straightened from fiddling with his racquet bag, and turned to me. I quickly tore my eyes away from him, and focussed instead on his shadow against the lockers. It grew larger as he drew nearer to me, and I had no idea why he would approach me before the match. Despite the renewed warmth in his touch. Things were not how they once had been, whispered words and clumsy kisses; our personal pre-match ritual.

“Rogelio.”

That nickname. I chanced a look up at him. He was standing so close his shins brushed against my bent knees. There was a tension in the air, palpable and hot.

“Rafa.”

“I am sorry.”

Those three words were so unexpected I wasn’t sure what to say next. I settled for, “What?”

“I mean to say, in Hamburg. I am sorry. For all. You know.” Then, suddenly, his hands were on my shoulders, and he was stooped low, his face hovering inches from mine. The ache inside me doubled, and focussed in my gut. “I. Am sorry.”

In that moment, I knew he meant it.

I nodded stiffly, face heating up like the air around us. Rafael’s eyes flickered from mine, to my mouth, and back again. He licked his lips with the very tip of his tongue. I felt myself exhale deeply, breath mingling with Rafael’s, making the air between us humid and heavy. His hands on my shoulders were heated and damp. Each fingertip was like a spot of fire against my bare skin. He smiled, a proper, genuine smile, and I found myself fighting against the urge to reach out and trace the curve of his lips with my fingers.

“I’m sorry too, Raf.”

 

~

 

Out on court, the ghost of an almost moment hung in my mind.

I could see, knew by the way he moved, so sure, that Rafael wasn’t thinking on it. This threw me somewhat. I had expected him to feel the same as I felt, act the same as I acted, afterwards.

I’d like to say that’s why I lost that day, but the only excuse is no excuse at all. I played bad tennis, and Rafael was unstoppable. These factors combined saw me win just four games.

When he came to me at the net, I could see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Brutal, animal only moments ago, now tender and timid almost, he hardly seemed able to touch me. His hand brushed my stomach briefly and I choked out a whispered, “Well done, Raf.” And that was all.

 

~

 

Mirka berated me that night, though I listened little. For this she fell silent, hands on her hips, and simply stared at me for a time until the air in the hotel room grew thick and uncomfortable.

“I lost,” I said eventually, assuming the rest of the sentence would build itself from there. When no more words were found, Mirka frowned.

“Yes,” she said firmly. She walked the few steps to my side and took my hand up in both of hers. “Are you okay, Roger?” I noticed a chip in the scarlet polish on her left thumb nail. My lack of response gave her all the answer she needed. “I want to make things better,” she told me. And she led me to the bedroom and kissed me gently until I gave way, and as she made love to me I thought of Rafael’s golden smile.

Afterwards, while I lay there still and willed sleep to come, Mirka sat up and studied my face. I met her gaze soon, and held it for a while in which somehow all my thoughts were betrayed.

“You don’t think of me, do you Roger? Even now.”

I closed my eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, and I sighed. “No.”

“Is it still Rafa? Even after all this time?”

I paused a moment before responding to that. A moment to think, a moment too long. “I don’t know,” I said.

But Mirka read, “Yes.”

 

~

 

 **Wimbledon, June/July 2008.**

It rained the day I arrived. Looking back, perhaps it was a sign of things to come. At the time however, I embraced it, walked the streets without an umbrella, letting the rain soak me through and welcome me home. Of course, I walked alone. Mirka was holed up back at the hotel, in the suite with two bedrooms that said everything, really.

 

~

 

 _I have a tough opponent waiting for me, he has a great future._

 

The final day of the tournament, and Mirka stood just inside the hotel room door, leaning back against it slightly, eyes raking up and down my body, searching. I responded in kind from my station by the window, across the room. I don’t think either of us knew exactly what we were looking for right then. Something professional? Something personal? Something lost long ago, most likely.

I was the first to move, crossing the room and wrapping her in my arms. I stepped across the pond and held her, not even caring that my feet were wet. And she cried.

I’m not sure how long we stood there like that. Too long, perhaps, for it to be entirely comfortable. For when we broke apart she looked embarrassed, and apologised. Then she said, “Good luck, Roger.” And she slipped away, the door clicking shut softly behind her.

 

~

 

The locker room felt remarkably empty without Mirka by my side. This despite the clamour of Rafael’s team fussing around him, and the million and one thoughts racing through my head.

When the time came for Rafael and me to leave the locker room, to walk the hall of champions and emerge on centre court, I felt the nerves coiling inside my stomach like never before. I sensed this match meant more than just a Grand Slam title, at least for me. It was a turning point.

 

~

 

During the first rain delay, I sat, numb, on one of the benches in the locker room, knuckles spotted pink and white with the force of my grip on the edge of the seat. Rafael paced, equally silent, by the showers.

I smiled wryly, thinking back to my first day in London, walking in the rain, and how much I enjoyed it then. I supposed I should enjoy it now, too. Two sets down, the rain delay may just have been a blessing in disguise.

I was still musing over this, eyes tracking Rafael’s movements and hands starting to cramp, when we were welcomed back on court to continue the match.

 

~

 

During the second rain delay, the roles reversed. Rafael sat, watching me as I walked the length of the locker room, back and forth, over and over again. Eventually he stood, matched my pacing step for step, until I was trapped between him and the wall. His presence behind me was heavy, and larger than his physical form. I turned around slowly, and found his gaze upon me. Fierce, it was, and full of something indefinable.

“Roger,” he said, and it was the first word either of us had spoken in several hours spent together. I felt my nerves fray at the gravelly sound of his voice, so serious. I had the distinct feeling of needing to be sick. I could think of nothing but the final set, the crowd, all the expectation. Then he reached out a hand and touched my shoulder, and I forgot all of it, just like that.

“Rafa,” I replied, voice soft and slightly shaky.

“I think for a while you give up.”

I studied his face for a moment, before assuring him, “Never.”

“Si, I know, you come back and fight. A real match. So you promise me you keep fighting, no?”

“I promise,” I told him.

Rafael said nothing else. His eyes sparkled, that indefinable something still playing upon his gaze. His hand, still on my shoulder, was warm. His fingers tightened their grip ever-so-slightly, just enough for me to notice the change. I glanced down at his hand, noted the bunched fabric of my white shirt where he held me. As I looked back up at him, he stepped closer to me, closing the distance between us to nothing. His body was all but pressed against mine, and my resulting shiver was definitely felt, for he smiled fleetingly and squeezed my shoulder again.

There was a fizz, a spark in the air around us then, chest to chest as we were. Rafael was sweating, I noticed, and his brow was knitted together in a look of sheer concentration. I breathed in shallow breaths, gulping down what seemed to be a startlingly limited supply of air. Then suddenly there was no air at all as Rafael crushed his mouth against mine in a bruising, hungry kiss, and the air so thick with tension broke like racquet strings wound too tight.

 

~

 

On court again, in the fading light, I felt the press of Rafael’s lips, the sensation of his heart beating against my chest. I saw nothing. Not the ball, anyway. I lunged forward, heard it hit my racquet. Then I saw everything. In sickening slow motion, the ball hit the net. Championship point, and it was all Rafael.

He came to the net, and I, and we met with a touch like fire and ice. I was burning, anger, disappointment, resignation and congratulation. But he was cold, and his face was white as snow.

An eternity later, trophies in hand, we stood together. He looked at me with haunted, sorrowful eyes and a face pale and twisted in apology. In a moment all our own, I reached out and touched his face, cupped his jaw gently.

“I kept fighting,” I whispered. “You won. And I am proud.”

Rafael said nothing at all.

 

~

 

 **Beijing, August 2008.**

The Olympic Games are more important to me than they perhaps are to most tennis players. It was at the Games, in Sydney eight years previous, that I met Mirka. I tried not to think of her as I carried the Swiss flag for my country at the opening ceremony. She was there, of course. She is always there, every match, keeping up appearances. But her mind is elsewhere these days. As is mine.

 

~

 

As Stan and I stood together, medals around our necks, I thought not of that gold, but the gold of Rafael’s skin.

Fr all of that night, and most of the following day, in the athlete’s village celebrations were wild. But through a sea of white and red, flags and shirts and banners, I saw him. He stood, by himself, at the corner of the street, watching me almost curiously. He wore his gold medal, and I guessed he must have escaped from his own country’s celebrations to be there. I grabbed Stan’s arm, and he turned to me, so I shot a look in Rafael’s direction, and Stan nodded, understanding. He covered for me as I slipped away down the street.

I met Rafael halfway. His smile was all the warmth of Summer as he took my hand and dragged me into a small alley between two buildings, out of sight. Then, without a word, he captured my lips in a searing kiss, pulling me in close to him as he did so. I opened my mouth to him, revelling in the feel of his tongue sliding against mine, fingers tightening their grip of his hand. Our gold medals clanged together, and we broke apart, chuckling.

Soon the laughter faded, and we stood, foreheads pressed together, hands entwined.

I said, “Tomorrow you will be number one.”

“Si,” he replied.

“The thing is,” I continued, “you already were.”

 

~

 

 **New York, August/September 2008.**

I played Andy Murray in the final, and won. I won’t say easily, but at the same time, it wasn’t the most difficult of matches.

After all the commitments, back at the hotel, Mirka was in one of her strange moods. She opened a bottle of champagne, and we drank the lot, and then another. Then she stood up from her seat next to me on the couch, and grabbed my hands, pulling me to my feet as well. I asked no questions as she lead me to her bedroom in the suite, and still none as she kissed my neck and face. Vision blurred and mind warm and fuzzy from the champagne, it didn’t even strike me as strange when the kissing lead to sex.

It wasn’t until later, while we lay together in bed, as my mind started to clear, that I even realised what exactly we had done. From the look on Mirka’s face, she was having the same realisation. She sat up, and turned to me, and smiled a half hearted smile.

“That’s never going to happen again, is it Roger?”

I sighed. “No.”

At that moment we both knew that we had reached the end of something. I looked at her troubled face, and knew my expression must have mirrored hers. Then I slipped out of the bed, and padded across the floor, through the lounge area, and into my own bedroom on the other side of the suite.

I fell asleep with thoughts of victory and the end of an era running circles in my head.

 

~

 

 **Shanghai, November 2008.**

I was playing just okay, definitely not my best. And pain haunted me, and in my third match I lost after receiving treatment for my hip and my back.

I felt old. Tired. Defeated. A fitting end to an exhausting year.

 

~

 

Mirka broke the news to me three days later.

“Roger,” she said, and I knew straight away it was serious.

“Yes?” I hardly dared ask.

“I’m pregnant.”

 

~

 

I ended the year without the number one ranking for the first time since 2003. I was glad it was Rafael who had taken it from me.

 

~

 

 **Melbourne, January 2009.**

There is a way Rafael stands that makes him look much taller than I am, despite our perfect equal height. There is a way he wears the strapping on his knees and fingers, so it looks like war paint. He is not injured, he is invincible. There is a way he smiles, just when it all seems too serious, and a way he frowns when it really is. There is a way he kisses me that makes me feel like I am the only person on the planet. There is Rafael, just so.

 

~

 

I came to Melbourne with strength anew. I visited Rafael, first off, and we laughed and kissed for a short while, before Toni called by and whisked his nephew away for practice. So I returned to my hotel, and to Mirka.

She was sitting on the middle seat of the cream coloured sofa by the wall when I arrived, and didn’t move, didn’t even look my way as she said to me, loudly, bluntly, “Roger. I think we should get married.”

I froze just inside the doorway, and the silence that surrounded us sounded like screaming.

 

~

 

 _Playing Rafa is obviously more exciting because of the history we have._

 

The final approached, and there he was again. Rafael. The net kept us apart, just enough, for those few achingly long hours. After the match, there was pain - not physical, more like a memory than anything - and silence so explosive I could feel my eardrums pounding inside my head.

Disappointment and exhaustion blurred my vision, tears threatening to fall. I glanced at Rafael, and noticed with a start, past the grimace, his own watery eyes.

In front of the microphone I tried to open my mouth and speak, say my thanks and congratulations. But emotion got the better of me, and I was gone; tears streaming down my face, I floundered in front of millions. Then, of all people, Rafael. He stepped up to me, slung one arm around my shoulders, and drew me close. With his nose against my cheek, and sweet breath against my ear, I smiled at last.

The nothings he whispered to me that evening were everything to me. If you asked me now, which you may well do, I wouldn’t be able to tell you the exact words that were spoken, only the meaning behind them. Some of it English, some of it Spanish, most of it not making sense, those mumblings meant the world.

The one thing I do remember is the last thing he said to me, before we parted ways. “Later,” he murmured, an invitation, a promise. “Later. Understand, Rogi?”

I understood exactly. My smile showed that well enough.

 

~

 

Later, then, in Rafael’s hotel room, we came together.

We undressed each other slowly, made our way to the bed. And as midnight turned to morning, we made love beneath the covers.

Gathering my clothing afterwards, I brought up something that had been weighing heavily upon my mind for the past two weeks.

“Raf,” I said, and he rolled over, gazing at me lazily.

“Si?”

I paused, half dressed, one sock on, the other beyond my sight. “Mika thinks… I mean, she told me… She wants me to marry her.”

Rafael was silent for the longest of times. I spotted my lost sock under his discarded jeans, but didn’t move for it yet. Eventually Rafael asked the obvious question. “You say yes?”

I shrugged. “I… thought it would be best. We decided together that it makes sense, you know? And part of me still loves her, like I know there’s a part of her that loves me. That will always love me. Even if we’re not _in_ love, yeah? That’s why we’re gonna do it. And for the public, too, I suppose. It just makes everything easier.”

“Of course,” Rafael replied, nodding sagely. He even managed half a smile, then, and added, “Maybe I marry Xisca.”

I must have looked as shocked as I felt at that, because Rafael burst out laughing, and shook his head. “Roger! I do not mean it. We are not like you and Mirka. We are easy already, no? Nothing to, ah… protect.”

“Right.”

“So, when you gonna do it?” Rafael asked.

“April,” I replied, and I dreaded the day as much as I longed for it.

 

~

 

There was no honeymoon. Not for Mirka and me, anyway. Instead she gave me leave for the weekend, and I flew to Spain to see Rafael.

He wanted to meet me at the airport. I was scared to meet him at all. In the end we compromised, and I made my own way to a small beach where he would be waiting for me. I found Rafael easily on the almost vacant shoreline, and, wary of the few possibly prying eyes, greeted him with a quick one-armed hug. Then he lead me away from the sea and up a gently sloping path to the road. From there it was just a several minute stroll to the hotel.

We didn’t dare stay at his house. While Rafael’s family were accepting of me as a person, as Rafael’s friend, none of them knew the true extent of our relationship. And he told me that he often escaped to the hotel for the weekend, from all of them, from Xisca, even, as it was close to his favourite spot of sea. Nobody would ask questions. So the beachside building, small and simple, hidden away from the rest of the world, was perfect.

Rafael was silent during the walk, though there was a certain spring in his step. When we reached the hotel he lead me through the lobby, where the single staff member behind the welcome desk nodded to him, and to the stairs. We climbed them to the third floor, the highest floor of the hotel, and as we did I felt Rafael’s hand slide around my hip and come to rest on the small of my back.

The room was larger than I expected, though small compared to the suites Mirka and I usually stayed in during tournaments. Wonderfully small, in fact. Cosy, is the word you might use. The furnishings were simple and somewhat old fashioned. The whole set up reminded me of a countryside cottage, or a chalet in the snow covered mountains back home.

“You like this?” Rafael asked me hopefully.

I nodded, smiled, still looking around the room. “It’s nice,” I told him. “Really nice.”

 

~

 

At lunch time Rafael drove us to a café half an hour from the hotel which he assured me was worth the trip. We had coffee, and sandwiches that were somehow more delicious than anything I could have imagined. I wondered then if it was really the taste of the sandwiches that was so amazing, or whether it was sharing them with Rafael. As I pondered this, he caught my eye and grinned a beautiful grin. There was a seed from the bread stuck to his teeth, and I laughed at this, and told him, and he laughed too.

After lunch we returned to the hotel and Rafael lounged on the bed, falling in and out of an easy sleep, while I checked my emails and watched a video of the Australian Open trophy ceremony, watched what millions saw as Rafael comforted me after my loss. I glanced at his sleeping form, and smiled because I wanted to cry.

When Rafael woke full of energy later in the afternoon, we changed into our swim clothes and walked down to the beach. During the walk Rafael clutched my hand for the briefest of moments, squeezing it tightly.

Soon we felt the sand beneath our feet, and kicked off our shoes. Rafael dropped his towel, pulled his shirt off in one quick movement. Then he turned to me, and said, voice brighter than the sun, “Come. I race you!” And he took off for the water. I slipped out of my t-shirt and discarded it on the sand, then sprinted after him.

He slowed enough for me to catch up with him, and we both dropped back to a jog, hitting the surf together, water spraying up around us as we splashed into the shallows. As soon as the water hit me I was overcome with a feeling of absolute, unadulterated glee. As it washed over me in a metaphorical wave, a physical one crashed before me and rushed the shore, waning to a foamy crawl. The sun beat down warm and welcoming on our naked backs as we waded out into the deeper ocean. I turned to Rafael, and he smiled at me like a child, golden, innocent, pure. Then, suddenly, he flopped forward into the sea, graceless and full of joy. He surfaced a few metres away, hair plastered to his head, rivulets of water running all over his body. The glow of the late afternoon sun illuminated each droplet, and the ocean stretched out before him. The whole scene was absurdly erotic. I shook my head and dove beneath the waves.

I came up much closer to Rafael than I had anticipated. I felt his hands close around my upper arms as I surfaced, pulling me in even closer to him. He threw a quick glance either side of him, and behind, I suppose checking to see if we were alone. Then he turned back to me and kissed me chastely.

We spent an hour, maybe, splashing in the sea, playing like children. Rafael pushed me under, I lay back and kicked water in his face. We both laughed, and his sounded like a song to me.

Later, our wet feet collected sand as we made our way across the beach, back to our abandoned belongings. We dried ourselves and pulled our shirts back on, then walked side by side back up to the hotel. Our shoulders bumped together as we walked, and I could feel the heat of Rafael’s skin through the fabric of both of our shirts.

“Tomorrow,” Rafael said, “I show you my favourite spot to fish.”

“I’d like that,” I replied. But the thought of tomorrow, the last full day of our weekend together, wrestled with my happiness and I found, for the first time that day, that I could not smile.

 

~

 

I woke early to find Rafael two steps ahead. I could hear the shower running in the bathroom, hear an out of tune voice stretched in song, and see his clothes for the day in a heap on the end of the bed. I untangled myself from the sheets and padded to the bathroom.

“Rafa?”

“Here, Rogi,” he confirmed. And then he started to sing again, a tune I didn’t recognise. His voice resonated in the small room, bouncing off the walls and floor. I could almost feel the vibrations through my bare feet. I sighed at the simple beauty of it, and walked up to the shower, pulled the door open. Water sprayed at me, steaming hot. Rafael turned to face me as I stepped into the shower recess, and took my hand in his.

What followed was reminiscent of so many locker room fumblings, hot and wet, but now without fear. We kissed full of passion, water trailing down our faces and seeping into our mouths. We tangled and tied ourselves together, hands and arms and legs. Then Rafael faced away from me and I pressed my lips to the nape of his neck, trailing hot kisses down the top of his spine.

Somewhere back in reality, I heard my mobile phone ring. I mouthed at Rafael’s neck and down his shoulders and back, sinking slowly, carefully to my knees. The grooves in the tiles of the shower recess cut shallow impressions into my skin. My phone stopped ringing. Rafael turned back to face me and looked down at me through dark, wanting eyes. I blinked up at him, once, twice. Licked a line up the underside of his erection. I heard the faint buzz of my mobile’s message tone, somewhere beyond my realm of reason. As it subsided, I took Rafael in my mouth, listened to the thud of his head against the shower wall. Water streamed over me, down my face, into my eyes, beading around my busy lips. Rafael moaned softly and laced his fingers in my matted hair. I swallowed around him, and he began bucking gently into my mouth. It was over in minutes.

Rafael rolled his head to one side, closed his eyes, waited for me to stand. I did, and pressed myself against him, kissing at his jaw. We stayed like that for a short while, bodies flush and flushed, until Rafael reached over and turned the water off. Then he kissed me and stepped out of the shower, leaving me to cool off.

 

~

 

We bought take away sandwiches from the same café as the previous day, then drove on for ten minutes more. We ended up at a beach so vastly different from the one near the hotel it didn’t even feel like the same country. It was crowded and the sun beat down with twice as much intensity. The sand wasn’t as bright, more white than yellow. And there was a jetty, wide and long, sturdy looking, running from the shore for several hundred metres into the ocean. It was the jetty that had brought us there. Said Rafael, “We fish here. Second best place to do it.” I asked what the best place was, and he smiled and said, “Open ocean, out on the boat. Nothing like it.”

What surprised me most about our afternoon on that jetty was that nobody, of all the people on that beach, stopped us, or even looked our way. We might as well have been alone. For this, and for Rafael’s constant, casual touches, I was grateful.

 

~

 

Back at the hotel that evening, I remembered the missed call, the message on my phone from earlier that day. While Rafael undressed to his underpants and sprawled on the bed, I checked my mobile. The call had been from Mirka, and the message too. Two words was all it was. Two words with the power of a fist to the face. I spun upside down, or maybe it was the earth that moved beneath me, twisting and turning as I read the text over and over. Eventually Rafael said, from somewhere in the distance, “Roger, what’s wrong?”

“I…” I said. I shook my head and tried again. “It’s from Mirka.”

“What does she say?”

“It’s twins.”

 

~

 

Night fell, and so did we, together. I lay on my back on the hotel bed and let Rafael undress me slowly. The window above the bed was open, and the curtain billowed inwards with the breeze, salty and warm. The air caressed my skin, but not as tenderly as Rafael. He dragged my underwear down my thighs, fingertips trailing gently, tickling the fine hair. My body was with Rafael, in the hotel, in control. My mind, though, ran a marathon all the way to Mirka’s side. I squirmed uncomfortably and Rafael pulled away from me.

“Rogi?” he said, and sounded concerned.

I sighed heavily. “Sorry. Just thinking. Of Mirka. The babies. You know.”

He smiled a sad little half smile, and said, “Do not think. Not tonight.”

And as he hovered over me, lowered his head to kiss my forehead, mouth and jaw, I let all my thoughts construct cocoons and hide away from my conscious mind. From there it was all hands and lips, brushing my skin like whispers, and Rafael’s actual whispered voice saying, “You. You, Rogelio. Just you and me, no?”

We made love twice that night, Rafael drifting off to sleep in between, and at some point during his sleep my thought cocoons bore butterflies that brought me crashing back to reality for one brutal moment, before they fluttered out of the open window and away into the pre-dawn darkness. I was left in a panic, cured by the waking Rafael’s hands mapping out my flesh, painting the lyrics to Spanish lullabies across my skin. By the first light of new day, I was sated and sleepy.

As morning broke I dreamed once of Mirka, twice of my unborn children. And then three times of Rafael; his smile, his skin, his kiss.

 

~

 

 **Madrid, May 2009.**

I heard not a word from Rafael until Madrid. I arrived two days before him, and anticipation made my muscles ache. But when his plane touched down, he sent a simple text message my way. It just said, “Xisca is here”, and I knew we would not see each other except on court. Suddenly making it to the final seemed more important than anything.

I fought hard for it, then suddenly, there I was, and he.

 

 _It definitely becomes more and more special the more times we play against each other._

 

Prior to the match, Xisca hovered beside him, kissed the side of his face and held his hand, and I wondered for the first time how much she really knew. Then Mirka prodded me gently in the ribs, nodded curtly, smiled a reluctant smile, and left me alone. Xisca followed soon after, and in the thirty seconds before we were called onto the court, Rafael locked his gaze with mine, and his eyes said sorry more than “sorry” ever could. I didn’t have time to tell him not to be.

 

~

 

After the match, it was my turn to apologise. “Sorry to spoil the party,” I murmured to him, and he chuckled in my ear.

His touch was soft, his congratulations fierce as we stood side by side, holding our hard earned trophies. In the stands I saw Mirka smile her by now well practised victory smile. I caught her eye and she averted her gaze, looking pointedly at Rafael’s box. I turned my head and saw Xisca smiling wanly, eyebrows narrowed, staring right at me. Rafael touched my forearm, lingering perhaps a little too long, and she frowned. I tore my eyes away from her, gulped back any remark that might have slipped from my open mouth, and smiled brightly for a hundred cameras.

 

~

 

 **Paris, May/June 2009.**

Funny how a final without Rafael hardly feels like a final at all.  
Maybe you think that’s silly, or romantic, or something else more than it is. All it really is, though, is fact.

The win meant a lot to me, naturally. It was a record equalling performance. But without Rafael across the court, something in me felt lacking.

He came to me the morning after the final, a rare visit to my hotel suite, and I collapsed into his arms. He stood there, just holding me, for a time, and I breathed in the scent of deodorant and cologne, and something that smelled a lot like pride.

 

 _Change is coming in my life; it's going to be exciting in the next few years._

 

~

 

 **Wimbledon, June/July 2009.**

I heard before he even made the final decision, but arriving at a Wimbledon without Rafael there waiting was still difficult.

 

 _We definitely won't see the same final again. That's disappointing for me, of course, because I'd love to play him._

 

I played Andy in the final. Reclaimed my crown. But something about it felt wrong, and I knew it was because I hadn’t really taken my title back, I had merely earned a new one.

The number one ranking also fell back into place beside my name. Easy, like it had never left. But this too, felt wrong somehow. Because I didn’t play Rafael that day, I had no way of knowing whether I had truly earned it.

 

~

 

In July, they came at last. My daughters. Horrible, beautiful bundles of pink flesh and dry tears. I cried for a little while, holding one of them, and told myself it was out of pure joy. Something in me, though, felt deeply unsettled.

Eventually I escaped to the hospital car park with my mobile phone, and dialled Rafael’s number. He picked up on only the second ring, and I kept thinking ‘everything in twos’. Two players on a court. Two serves in a point. Two babies I couldn‘t even begin to believe truly existed. And then two words.

“Hola Rogelio!”

“Rafa,” I said, and my voice came out all desperate and croaky. “Raf. I just. Oh. Oh God…”

“Roger, what is wrong?”

I took in a deep, shaking breath of air. “The twins. Two little girls. They’re here.”

There was a pause. “I am happy,” Rafael said eventually, though he sounded anything but.

“But aren’t you worried. About us, I mean? I think things, might, you know, be different now.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then, of all things, laughter. I started, slightly affronted, but before I could say anything, Rafael said, “You say this after you get married too. But you spend your honeymoon with me, no? I think things stay the same. Maybe even get better. We will see.”

And I found myself agreeing with him, tension flooding from my shoulders in waves. We said our goodbyes and I returned to the hospital, and to Mirka’s side. I held both of my daughters as Mirka slept, and wondered what the future would hold.

 

~

 

 **Abu Dhabi, December 2009.**

I spent New Years Eve in Abu Dhabi, lounging on a hotel balcony with Rafael. Some other players milled inside, playing Playstation and Wii, and generally making lots of noise. Outside it was far quieter, time and space for just the two of us.

At two minutes to midnight, Rafael turned to me and asked, voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper, “Did I hurt you?”

I froze. I froze for two minutes, and the new year washed over us in a burst of sound and silence simultaneous.

“Did I hurt you?” he repeated, as if I hadn’t heard.

And I stood up and leaned over, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

 

~

 

 _It was an incredible year for me both on and off the court._

 

I ended the year ranked number one in the world for the fifth time in my career. To celebrate, I poured champagne over Rafael’s body and drank it from his glistening skin. The ghost of the taste of it is still on my tongue.

 

~

 

 **Melbourne, January 2010.**

First it was Hit for Haiti. Because, beyond all the charity, any excuse to spend time with Rafael on court, without the pressure.

 

~

 

I watched his quarter final match, and watched him come undone. Retirement from the tournament was painful for him, for sure. It hurt me just the same.

I went to his hotel that evening, waited for him to return from dinner, and when he did, I wrapped him in my arms while he wept, all the day’s emotions draining out of him. Then I took him inside and lead him to the bed, undressed him carefully, and let him lie back, stretched out before me.

When I made love to him that night, I made love to every part of him. I made love not only to his skin, but to the lines etched into it upon his face, tracing their gentle curves with my fingers. I made love not only to his hands, but to the calluses they carry, kissing the hardened skin. I made love not only to his eyes, but to his soul beyond, the colour of sunlight upon the sea and feeling fierce and tender at once. I made love to all there is and was and could ever be of him, because once I started I could never feasibly stop.

And as I pushed into him, he laughed a wondrous laugh.

 

~

 

 **Madrid, May 2010.**

For the first time in as long as either of us could remember, Mirka stayed home instead of coming to the tournament. The twins, she said, needed as much time with their mother as possible. She neglected to mention the argument we had had the previous day, but I knew it must have weighed as heavily on her mind as it did on mine.

“All you think about is tennis and Rafael,” she had said, voice vibrating with anger, harsh like gravel but barely more than a whisper.

“That’s not true. There’s you. And Charlene and Myla.”

And she had sighed forcefully, shaking her head. “You love them, I know. But you have no time for them, for any of us. This marriage isn’t a jail sentence. You’re allowed to see Rafa, see whoever you like. You know that. But we need you too, Roger. We love you. Please, remember that?”

“I love you too,” I had said. “This is just as hard for me.”

At that, eyes narrowed and arms folded, she had flopped down on the couch and avoided my gaze for the rest of the day.

 

~

 

After his first round match, I kissed Rafael in the locker room, his hair tangled in my hands, and I thought of Mirka and the girls. As my tongue slipped into his mouth, I saw Myla’s crying face, Charlene’s tiny toes, and Mirka, beautiful Mirka, smiling a pained and knowing smile. I pulled away suddenly, leaving Rafael looking confused and maybe a little hurt.

“Rogi, what is…?”

“I can’t. I just… I can’t,” I failed to explain. And I fled the locker room in a state of panic, leaving a bewildered Rafael in my wake.

 

~

 

I didn’t see Rafael again until the day of our final. In the locker room I avoided his gaze, and knew that when the time came that we were alone, he would have questions which I had to answer.

I won’t make excuses for my form that day, but to say I was distracted would be an understatement. I remember at one point looking up to my box and seeing everyone, everyone but Mirka, and feeling guilt gnawing away at my insides. Several miss-hit balls later, and Rafael was holding the trophy aloft.

 

~

 

I phoned Mirka after the match, and told her I loved her. She said nothing for a moment, then excused herself to tend to the babies, and hung up.

 

~

 

The knock on my hotel door came at just past three o’clock in the morning. Rafael stood in the hall looking tired and dishevelled, running one hand through his already tousled hair. I welcomed him into the room with a nod.

“Roger,” he began, scratching his head a little. “I just want to say, what is wrong?”

I looked at the floor, worried my wedding ring with my thumb. “Nothing’s wrong,” I told him.

“I think this is not true,” he said, and glanced at my wedding ring as I twisted it in circles on my finger.

Still focusing on the carpet, I conceded, “Yeah, okay. It’s Mirka. And the girls. Playing the tour. You. I’m finding it hard to, you know, balance it all.”

“I am sorry for hear this,” he said. “But maybe you think too much. Mirka is fine, girls are fine too, no?” I nodded, looking up at him at last. “So,” he continued, “you must focus on tennis when you play, on your family when you are with them.”

“And what about when I’m with you?”

He smiled broadly. “Then you must shut up and kiss me.”

So I smiled too, and did just that.

 

~

 

 **London, November 2010.**

On court, we were like cat and mouse. Teasing, chasing, never truly fighting. Just waiting for one of us to gain the upper hand. Tennis had become a game for us, where the loser never really lost.

When we came to the net, Rafael’s smile of defeat looked like a victor’s grin. His touch was like fire, and dark flames danced in his eyes. We lingered for as long as we could, then parted, and the earth started spinning once more.

 

~

 

 **Melbourne, January 2011.**

Mirka and the girls came to Australia with me, and on the first day I cradled Charlene and Myla in my arms while Mirka checked her email inbox and napped. On the second day, Rafael arrived. I know this, because he sent a text message that simply said, “My hotel. Come.”

Mirka looked up from the television, saw me pacing, and without a word from me, bid me go to him.

 

~

 

“There is something I have to tell you,” Rafael said, while I kissed his jaw and neck. I ignored him, and licked a trail from his collar to his earlobe. He tried again. “Is important.”

“It can wait,” I told him, nipping gently at the skin of his collarbone. I pushed him backwards, and we stumbled to the bed, tripping over each other’s feet and legs.

Rafael soon lay sprawled out on the bed, naked skin all gold like honey, and where the tan ended, pale and cool. I knelt between his legs, running my fingers along the edge of his tan. My eyes raked his body, taking in every detail like it was the first time I had seen him like that. From the freckles on his face to the veins on his feet, I drank it all in. Then I shuffled in close to him, lowered my body onto his, and kissed his lips.

He tasted different that night, like cinnamon and mint, and smelled of aftershave that I myself had bought for him. He felt the same though, all muscle and sinew, coiled like a spring. I let my hands pioneer his body, run over each curve and plane until there was not an inch of him left untouched. When my hand finally closed round his cock, Rafael arched his back and let out a short gasp, just, “Oh!”.

As I stroked him, he wriggled and bucked and tried not to laugh. He came soon after.

I took my hand away, and kissed him all over the face, and then he could not help but giggle. I relished the sound.

“What did you want to tell me Raf?” I asked, when his laughter had subsided.

He paused momentarily, face flushed and eyes glazed. Then he said, timidly, “Te quiero. I love you, Rogelio.”

 

~

 

Rally for Relief, and it happened at last. There, something I know Rafael had long been waiting for but that I had long denied him, finally unfolded as we took our places on the same side of the net. Every point won, an excuse to touch. To jump and hug and laugh together, with no repercussions.

And if you saw us that day, didn’t you think we were the happiest men in the world?

 

 _That was fun, Rafa._


End file.
